


over us all to reign

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Carols, Fluff, Librarian!Sherlock, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mistletoe, Porn with Feelings, Teenlock, enjoy, just 8k of plotlessness, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 00:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: “Flattering, that you’ve noticed that much.” He raises his eyes to look up at John, his mouth still around the straw. He notices John’s gaze fixate at the point of connection, the split second where he bites his lip before he looks away.“I-well.” He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock doesn’t understand why. “I think everyone’s noticed.”Sherlock has a crush. Little does he know, so does John.





	over us all to reign

**Author's Note:**

> So this was hanging around in my google docs for ages, and even the middle of summer is a good time for christmas fics, right? So I polished it up and added a few more things, and here is this utterly plotless offering of fluff and smut.

Sherlock’s quite sure he’s never seen him before in the library.

 

He recognizes him, of course, he’d be a fool not to- but he doesn’t immediately tag John Watson as the kind of person to set foot in a library. Not, at least, to do anything people usually do in a library. He decides not to say anything, choosing instead to keep reading his book on apiology.

 

Except it’s difficult, because John is distracting.

 

He has a red cap pulled over his ears, which he takes off when he starts scanning the books. Snow dusts the wool, his shoulders. There’s a blue sweatshirt over what he assumes is his rugby jacket, the hem of it darkened with melted snow. He’s probably leaking a wet spot all over the carpet. Sherlock should say something. It’s his job, isn’t it? But he doesn’t, because then he’d have to speak to John Watson and he’s not sure he’s capable of that.

 

He continues reading, and John disappears somewhere into the back of the library. Sherlock feels a momentary stab of disappointment. He wonders what he’d be looking for. Probably a text book, something to do with English. Maybe he’s borrowing a book for someone. Anyway, it’s none of his business

.

He turns the page, immerses himself in honey bees again.

 

“Hey.”

 

Sherlock swallows. Stares at the text in his hands for a second. Small, black font. John is talking to him. _To him._

 

“Um. Excuse me. Mate.”

 

Sherlock looks up, raises his eyebrows. John smiles as soon as he makes eye contact. Sherlock feels something squirm in the vicinity of his gut. People usually don’t smile at him like that.

 

“You’re excused,” he says. Kicks himself mentally.

 

John just looks amused, though. “Thanks,” he laughs. “But I need some help.”

 

“Okay.” Sherlock carefully folds the page he’s on and puts the book next to the keyboard on the desk. He steeples his fingers under his chin and looks expectantly up at John. Doubtful that he’s ever seen him up this close. His blonde hair looks windswept, the tips of it dark and wet. His eyes are an odd shade of blue. Dark enough to be mistaken for brown at a distance, but still- unmistakably blue. He catalogues it.

 

“There’s this book,” he tells him, looking at him as though afraid Sherlock is going to pounce on him. Probable, but not in the way John is assuming. Sherlock banishes the thought immediately. “I, um, can’t find it. I think it’s French or something.” He hands him a piece of crumpled paper.

 

Sherlock frowns. “French,” he echoes, and takes the slip of paper. John’s hands are encased in gloves. Leather. New, but definitely hand me downs. Probably belonged to his brother. Didn’t like them, or no- had no use for them. He stares down at the name scrawled on the sheet.

“Not French,” he informs John. “Russian. You read Russian literature?”

“Uh. No, not me. My-er,” he coughs. “Girlfriend.”

“Alicia Turner,” he assumes.

John raises his eyebrows. “How do you-?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The entire school knows, John.”

John’s cheeks colour with pink. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in that.”

This time Sherlock flushes. “I’m not,” he defends. “Do you want this book or not?”

“Yeah, sorry- yeah, that would be great.” John is looking at him, and his eyes are…sparkling. With amusement. John is laughing. At him. But it doesn’t make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. Instead he…likes it.

 

Sherlock gets up from his chair and moves around until he’s on the other side of the counter. He’s a few inches taller than John, but John clearly has much more muscle, - and more- something. He isn’t sure what to call it.

 

“It should be in the Foreign Literature section,” he murmurs.

 

“There’s a foreign literature section?” John follows him as he moves between the shelves.

 

“Yes, clearly you’re too blind to see it.” It crosses Sherlock’s mind that insulting John may ensure John never set foot in the library again, but John doesn’t seem to mind. He just laughs.

 

“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to that. He usually doesn’t help people like this, Molly does it when she’s working, and when she isn’t there, Sherlock just ignores them until they leave.

 

“Here we are,” he says quietly. The foreign literature ‘section’ isn’t exactly a section, more of a shelf pushed to the back of the library where no one sees it. John stands behind him, smelling like snow and winter with his stupid golden hair falling over his forehead in a way that makes Sherlock want to brush it back.

 

He ignores him in favour of looking for John’s book, which is stuffed into the back, hiding between two thick books on Japanese history. He hands him the thin novel. “This should be what you’re looking for.”

 

John looks down at the book, unimpressed, flips through it uninterestedly. “Don’t know what she likes about this so much, but thanks. I’ll borrow this, then.”

 

Sherlock thinks, s _he clearly doesn’t have the same amount of affection for you that you have for her, the sex can’t be that phenomenal, I think you deserve better than whichever snot nosed idiot you’re dating. Dating. Dating is stupid. You should stay here, in the library, forever, where I can stare at you and watch you run your fingers through your hair- yes! Exactly like that._

 

Instead he quirks a smile and takes the book from him to issue.

***

The next time Sherlock sees John, it is in the woods near school, where he usually takes himself when he doesn’t want to attend class. Which is often. He’s sitting, his scarf wrapped around his neck and his feet cold inside his trainers when he hears the crunching of leaves.

 

“Hi,” John says, standing above him. Sherlock looks up and pulls his scarf down from around his nose so he can say something to John. He finds himself incapable of speech. “Do you usually sit here all alone?”

 

Sherlock considers lying for a moment, but John probably knows the answer already. “Yes.”

 

“Here,” he hands him one of those miniature milk cartons you get at the cafeteria. Chocolate. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the carton, but takes it from him anyway. John takes that as an invitation to sit down next to him. Sherlock doesn’t mind.

 

“I don’t like chocolate milk,” he mutters.

 

“No? Why, what’s so terrible about it?” John tilts the carton in Sherlock’s hand so it’s facing him and bends his head to suck some milk through the straw. His lips are thin, but pink. Very pink. Sherlock hasn’t noticed them before. A grave error of judgement.

 

“Did your girlfriend like the book?” he asks, watching John’s tongue dart out to lick his lips.

 

“We broke up. I thought you’d have noticed.”

 

He did notice. He just wanted to hear John say it.

 

“Hmm. Well, good for you, I suppose.” He leans his head back against the trunk. John is sitting so close to him that the heat of his thigh bleeds through his jeans, their feet almost touching, their shoulders leaning against each other. He lied. He does like chocolate milk. Just started liking it, in fact.

 

“So, do _you_ have a girlfriend?”

 

Sherlock almost chokes on his milk. “No,” he sputters out. “Not really my area.”

 

“Oh?” John sounds surprised. Sherlock looks at him from the corner of his eye, sees the hint of pink colouring his cheeks. John steadfastly does not look at him. “Boyfriend, then?”

 

Sherlock feels very hot, all of a sudden. Like he’d burst into flames if someone touched him the right way. “No,” he says quietly, pointedly.

 

John turns to him, head cocked to one side. His hair stands up at the back. Sherlock has a sudden urge to twist his fingers into it, bring his face closer-

 

“I find that hard to believe. I mean, you’re kind of a looker- the girls at school like you..“

 

 _Kind of a looker._ Sherlock wants the ground to swallow him whole. He drinks more milk.

 

“Flattering, that you’ve noticed that much.” He raises his eyes to look up at John, his mouth still around the straw. He notices John’s gaze fixate at the point of connection, the split second where he bites his lip before he looks away.

 “I-well.” He clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock doesn’t understand why. “I think everyone’s noticed.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything to that. John leans more fully against him, and they watch the golden sunlight turn dark and grey.

 

***

 

“Hi.”

Sherlock is underneath the counter, smoking a cigarette. He’s not allowed to, but it’s too cold outside and no one’s here- was here- so he thought he’d smoke one while he had the time.

 

But now he’s not alone. Definitely not alone. He pokes his head out from underneath the table, the cigarette still hanging limply from his lips. John raises an eyebrow at him.

 

“I know you’re smoking,” he announces.

 

“Well, it’s not a very difficult deduction,” Sherlock tells him haughtily, slipping the cigarette from between his mouth to hold between his fingers. He stands up completely, aware of how rumpled he must look. John doesn’t notice or he doesn’t care- instead he reaches forward and takes the cigarette from his fingers. Sherlock watches as he smoothly takes a drag and hands it back to him. Sherlock looks down at it, the faintly glowing embers- thinking about how the tip of it must still be wet from John’s mouth. Thinks about chocolate milk and straws.

He clears his throat and bins the cigarette.

 

“Did you- um- did you need another book?”

 

John shrugs. “Sure.”

 

Sherlock stares at him. He has a scarf around his neck today- maroon. His hands are in his pockets but he can see the thin strip of leather around his wrists. “Um- what do you-“ he feels oddly flustered. He wishes he hadn’t binned the cigarette.

 

“What do you have in mind?”

“When do you get off?”

 

“What?”

 

“When do you get a break? You get a break, right?”

 

Sherlock swallows. “A break. Yes, I do. I get breaks. Um.” He shakes his head. What is he doing? He’s babbling. “Do you need something?”

 

“Yes. I need you to come with me. For coffee. Or milk. Whatever warms you up.” He leans across the counter, elbows on the table, looks expectantly at him.

Sherlock feels his stomach drop right down to his feet. There’s an empty abyss in his gut where it should have been.

 

“Why- why are you asking me,” he manages to choke out.

 

“Because it must get boring here, issuing all those books all the time. Stop thinking so much.” He stretches out his arm and cups his hand over Sherlock’s, the leather cool and unfamiliar. Sherlock stares down at it, looks up at John. Feels heat rush up the back of his neck. “It doesn’t look like you’re busy.”

“I’m- I’m not,” he agrees. “I’ll just. Yes, alright. Coffee. Sounds good. I’ll  get my coat. Can you- wait?”

 

John grins, perfect teeth and perfect hair and his blue, blue eyes. “I’ll wait.”

 

***

John meets him outside the library, and waits for Sherlock to lock it up, twisting the key into the rusted metal and shaking it to make sure it’s secure.

 

“So you can close up the library whenever you want?” John seems amused.

 

“Yes, well,” Sherlock pockets the key. “No one’s here, no one has to know.”

 

“A rebel,” John decides approvingly. “I like that.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They walk to the park, where the trees are decorated with tinsel and there’s a gigantic Christmas tree in the middle of it, bright lights snaking around the branches. They grab a hot chocolate and listen to the children singing carols in the corner.

 

“Hideous,” Sherlock comments. “They sound hideous. That violinist is completely out of tune, and the children are too young to sing a proper harmony.”

 

“Yeah, it does sound like shite,” John agrees, and then so easily as if they’ve been doing it for years, snakes an arm around his waist. Sherlock wants to melt into it, wants to lean against him and burrow his face into his neck but he settles for standing a little closer to John and watching his eyes sparkle while they watch the snow fall.

 

It falls gently, dusting John’s shoulders and his hair and his eyelashes, and John catches him staring and smiles crookedly at him, as if he knows what Sherlock is thinking. Maybe he does.

 

Sherlock wants him to.

 

“Hey Sherlock,” John turns his face so his nose is brushing against Sherlock’s jaw. “Turn around.”

Sherlock looks at him, bewildered, but obliges. John is smiling, his eyes twinkling, and he reaches up, grabs for Sherlock’s hand and twists their fingers together, his other hand resting on Sherlock’s hip.

“What-“ Sherlock starts to ask, but then slowly, but very deliberately, John turns them around. Sways his hips.

 

They’re dancing.

To Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

 

“What are you _doing,_ ” Sherlock asks, his cheeks flushing with heat, because John’s body is pressed close against him, and Christmas carols aren’t really that sexy, but he’s never touched another boy like this, especially not a boy like John- and the thought makes heat pool in his gut.

 

“I don’t know, what do you think we’re doing?” John challenges, and spins them around so fast Sherlock gasps.

 

_Rudolph the red nosed reindeer_

_Had a very shiny nose_

 

“And if you ever saw him,” John sings along. “You would even say it glows!” Sherlock becomes aware that some people are staring at them.

 

“Oh, sod them, they’re just jealous,” John tells him, catching the line of his gaze. John is a really terrible dancer, to be honest- Sherlock will have to teach him- but he’s laughing at Sherlock’s mortified expression and his fingers brush the small of his back in just the right way and this is the best thing that’s happened to Sherlock, ever, perhaps.

 

“Rudolph with your nose so bright,” John sings into his ear. The hair at the back of his neck stands up as John’s breath ghosts over his skin. “Won’t you lead my sleigh tonight?”

 

Sherlock’s holding on to his shoulder, following John’s steps almost blindly, even though whatever depraved version of the fox trot they’re doing would be only improved with his instruction- ands finds himself feeling happier than he’s ever felt in years.

 

“I’d have thought you’d deleted Christmas carols,” John says, his hips moving closer to Sherlock’s…almost…almost _grinding._

 

“Some,” Sherlock answers honestly, listens as the children start singing _Jingle Bells._ “Could be useful, though.”

 

“In crime?” John pulls back suddenly and twirls him around. It’s difficult, because Sherlock is taller than him, and he loses his balance, but John catches him around the waist when he falls right into him.

 

“Yes, maybe,” Sherlock whispers back, staring at the snow gathering on John’s eyelashes, the pink tip of his nose, his cheeks.

 

“I’d like to see that,” John says, and then brushes his nose against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock leans in subtly, he’s just a centimeter away, he could just-

 

But John tilts his face and instead his lips move lightly over his jaw.

 

“Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh,” he murmurs, smirking.

 

There it is again, that smirk- that sly look in John’s eyes- like he knows that Sherlock wants to kiss him senseless. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone before, never felt the need- but he finds himself fantasizing about what John’s mouth would taste like- even as John sings _Oh, Holy Night_ in a horribly off-tune voice in his ear.

 

“Do you know,” Sherlock decides to comment, his arms wrapping around John’s shoulder somehow of their own accord. “You’re a terrible singer.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” John replies cheerfully, his hands resting just above his butt. Too low to be exactly chaste anymore, to high to be too filthy. Perfect, but makes him long for something more. “You like it, though.”

 

“ _Fall on your knees,”_ Sherlock sings at him, his lips twitching without warning as he does. John’s eyes sparkle back at him. “ _Oh, hear the angel’s voices.”_

 

“Damn, you should sing _all the time,_ ” John gushes. Sherlock notices with satisfaction that his neck is pink where it isn’t covered with his scarf.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies, and then, because he can, because John is _so close-_ rests his cheek on top of his head. John doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t move, only wraps his arms around him tighter.

They dance together like that for a long time, even after the carols stop.

 

***

 

John insists on dropping him home, Sherlock tells him it is unnecessary, John gives him a Look, and Sherlock acquiesces.

Sherlock doesn’t exactly believe in Christmas- or organized religion, for that matter- but somehow when John looks at the sky excitedly and sticks out his tongue to catch the snowflakes, he doesn’t really care.

 

John walks him right up to his door. Sherlock can see the lights glowing from inside- the delicate sound of his mother’s laughter. He can feel where the snow’s melted into his collar, damp and a little uncomfortable.

 

There’s a wreath hanging on the door, probably his mother’s doing.

 

“Do you-do you want to come inside?” Sherlock asks, looking at John hopefully.

 

John smiles softly at him. “I’d love to,” he answers. “But mum’s probably waiting for me, so I’ll uh- I’ll see you later.”

 

“Promise?” Sherlock regrets it as soon as he says it, because he doesn’t want to sound like that- clingy. Even though he is. Desperately clingy.

 

“I promise,” John replies, and then raises his hand to tuck a curl of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock swallows, the familiar heat rushing into his cheeks again.

 

“You can come see me at the library,” he offers, but John doesn’t seem to hear him. Instead, his gaze slips upwards, his hand still resting against Sherlock’s cheek.

 

Sherlock follows his gaze until he sees what John is looking at.

 

Mistletoe.

Right above his door.

 

“Um,” he mutters, feeling oddly off-balance. “Mother must have done that. She does it every year.”

 

John’s mouth curls upwards as he lowers his gaze back to Sherlock’s. It’s a lazy, predatory kind of smile. It makes Sherlock’s insides light up with want _._

 

“Mistletoe is the common name for most obligate hemiparasitic plants in the order Santalales,” he says, uselessly.

John’s crooked smile widens, and he takes a step closer to Sherlock. Sherlock finds himself unable to step back. He’s not sure he wants to.

 

“Mmm,” he says. “What else can you tell me?”

 

Sherlock swallows, racking his mind palace for something else. “Mistletoes attach to and penetrate the branches of a tree or shrub by a structure called the haustorium , through which they absorb water and nutrients from the host plant.”

 

“Top marks,” John says smoothly, and he feels a leather-clad hand wrap itself around his nape. “But you forgot the most important thing.”

 

Sherlock makes an embarrassing whimpering noise. “What’s that?”

 

“We’re supposed to kiss,” John whispers, right against his mouth, and proceeds to do exactly that.

 

His lips are a little chapped, but mostly soft- he still tastes like chocolate. Sherlock almost melts to a puddle on the floor, but then one arm wraps around his waist securely. John kisses with a confidence that makes Sherlock weak at the knees; competent, sure, absolutely filthy.

His tongue swipes into his mouth easily, and Sherlock can only curl his fingers into his jacket and stay still, let John kiss him into oblivion.

 

His fingers press lightly against the back of his neck, and Sherlock moans against his mouth. It’s embarrassingly high pitched, but John likes it, if the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth is any indication.

 

Sherlock is about to suggest that they move this to the backyard when John can kiss him some more in the garden shed, but then someone opens the door and they spring apart.

 

Mycroft looks down at them both from the doorway, grey eyes narrowing at John severely.

 

“Hi,” John says breathlessly.

 

“This is John,” Sherlock hurriedly explains, breaking the ice. He gestures at John vaguely. “Um. From school.”

 

“John from school,” Mycroft echoes blandly, his lips drawing into a straight line.

 

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock mutters, cheeks heated and jeans uncomfortably tight.

 

“Get in,” Mycroft inclines his chin inside the house. “Now.”

 

Sherlock glares at him mutinously but goes inside. “I’ll see you tomorrow, John,” he mutters from behind Mycroft.

 

“Season’s greetings, John,” Mycroft says, and shuts the door. John is still smiling at him when he does.

 

Mycroft crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at Sherlock once he’s inside. His lips curl into a mocking smile.

 

“John from school?”

 

“Fuck off,” Sherlock hisses at him. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I’m here on holiday,” Mycroft answers cheerfully, holding up his mug.

 

“Fat lot of good that’s doing.”

He turns around to march back into his room.

 

“Boys!” his mother calls from the kitchen. “No fighting!”

 

Sherlock’s lips are still tingling. He touches his fingers to them. John kissed him. _John kissed him._

_***_

 

Sherlock’s never kissed anyone on Christmas eve before. He’s never kissed anyone, full stop. He’s been fantasizing for three whole days about mistletoe and John’s mouth, everywhere, really- if John asks him what he wants for Christmas, Sherlock knows _exactly_ what to ask for.

 

***

 

John comes to see him at the library. Sherlock knows he doesn’t want any books, because John rarely wants books. Instead John walks right up to him, grabs him by the front of his jumper and kisses him full on the mouth. Sherlock makes a surprised noise but before he can pull John closer or open his mouth John pulls away, looking self-satisfied and smug.

 

“Molly’s here,” Sherlock whispers. John’s fingers are still curled into the front of his jumper.

 

“Really? Hullo, Molly,” he says, turning around. Molly is indeed standing there, three books in her arms, blushing furiously. Why is _she_ blushing, Sherlock is the one being kissed in front of an audience.

 

“Hi,” she says breathlessly, and then disappears into the back room again.

 

“Hot chocolate?” John asks, turning to him again, and kisses him before he can answer. Sherlock is no longer sure of anything. His fingers are curled tightly around the table and John is licking into his mouth, teeth grazing his bottom lip and hand sliding up till it’s curled around his neck. When Sherlock groans, John pulls away, cheeks flushed and mouth pink. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

 

***

 

Sherlock doesn’t really understand this whole boyfriend thing, but then John says they can be whatever they want to be as long as Sherlock’s okay with not snogging anyone else except him.

 

“And who will you be snogging?” he asks. John’s fingers are underneath his shirt, just above the waist of his jeans. He pushes him more firmly against the bookshelf, Sherlock can feel his erection pressing against his thigh. It’s still a thrill, that he can make John feel like that.

 

Sherlock is quite sure he’s not allowed to kiss people in the library but Molly’s handling the counter and he’s quite sure no one can see him.

 

“You, obviously,” John says, and kisses a spot underneath his jaw, his palm pressing against the ridge of his cock.

 

“And no one else?” Sherlock’s voice hitches.

 

“Why would I want anyone else?” John asks, like it’s so _obvious,_ and Sherlock wants to keep him _forever._

_***_

 

The tap on his window comes at 11:55 on Christmas eve.

 

Sherlock looks up from his Stradivarius, turns around, and sees John hanging onto the drainpipe, probably standing on the awning, waving at him from outside. He blinks for a few seconds at the sight before he puts his instrument down and runs to the window, immediately pushing it up and letting John climb inside his bedroom, dripping melting snow all over the carpet.

 

“Hi,” John greets him, taking off his woolen cap and running a quick hand through his dishevelled hair. Sherlock is about to ask him what on earth he’s doing but John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and kisses him, hard.

 

When he pulls away Sherlock’s head is spinning, and he watches in amazement as John flings of his jacket and throws it on the back of Sherlock’s desk chair.

 

“It’s Christmas in two minutes,” he observes, looking at his watch.

 

“You just sneaked into my bedroom,” Sherlock finally says.

 

“Not really, you know I'm here, right?”

 

Sherlock stares at him, horribly aware that he’s in his pyjamas and his dressing gown and he must look like a mess. “Clearly,” he swallows.

 

“God, how do you look so gorgeous all the time?” John asks, kissing the crest of his cheekbone.

 

“I’m-“ Sherlock has no idea what to say. He doesn’t remember a time when anyone called him gorgeous.

 

“It’s freezing, do you mind if I shut the window?” John doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns around and pulls down the shutters.

 

He’s wearing one of his bloody awful jumpers, this time green and red- John probably thinks it’s festive- and his jeans are dark with snow, his hair disheveled, but Sherlock thinks he looks fantastic. Especially since he’s here. In his bedroom.

On Christmas eve.

 

Shit.

 

“I got you something,” John tells him, and then reaches into his pocket to take out a very badly wrapped package. “Sorry, I’m shite at this,” he laughs, and hands it to Sherlock.

 

“You got me a present?” Sherlock says, awed. “I didn’t-I didn’t get you anything.”

 

“That’s fine,” John replies quickly, suddenly looking nervous. “I just- I saw this and I thought it would look great on you, and you seem to like wearing them…”

 

Sherlock blinks at him, bemused, and then gently unwraps the package.

 

It’s a scarf.

 

Deep navy blue, cashmere, expensive. It’s soft between his fingers. He loves it.  A gift. A _gift._ The word keeps bouncing back and forth in his head. Sherlock takes the scarf to his cheek and rubs it against his skin. “It’s so soft,” he says. “Thank you, John. It’s…it’s beautiful.”

 

He bends forward and presses his lips to John, unsure of how to do it properly. John is the one who initiates kissing. Sherlock follows. Willingly.

 

“Happy Christmas,” John whispers against his mouth, and cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands, catching his bottom lip between his teeth like he loves doing, tongue nudging his mouth.

 

“Happy Christmas, John,” he replies, and John’s hands slip under his dressing gown, rest just above his hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into his skin.

He realises they have to be quiet, his parents are only downstairs, Mycroft is sleeping in his old bedroom two doors down- but the realization only makes it more illicit, makes him kiss John harder, part his lips.

 

“Can you stay?” he asks.

 

John pulls away, their lips just a centimeter apart. “Stay? What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock swallows. “The night. Stay the night.”

 

A very appealing flush colours John’s skin.

 

“Stay the night,” he echoes. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. Whatever you want.”

 

Sherlock stuffs the scarf into the pocket of his dressing gown and then curls his fingers into John’s jumper. It’s so soft and wooly. It smells of John.

 

“We have to be very, very quiet,” he warns, and watches in satisfaction as John’s Adam’s apple bobs skittishly in his throat.

 

He checks the bedroom door to make sure it’s locked and then turns back to John, smiling widely.

 

“Bed,” he decides, and pulls John to it by the front of his jumper until they’re at the foot of the bed.

“Sherlock,” John says helplessly, as he pulls the hem upward and pulls the jumper roughly off John, throws it on bed. His hair sticks up wildly., static making an absolute mess of it.

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks, almost coyly, and kisses him underneath his ear. John moans softly, stretching his neck and Sherlock takes advantage of that, mouthing down the side and pressing his nose against his his collarbone.  

 

“Fuck,” John says instead of answering, and tugs at Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Take this off.”

 

Sherlock obeys, doing a little shimmy so that it slips off his shoulders. John’s hands are immediately on him again, slipping under his t-shirt, digging into his ribs. John pushes him gently so Sherlock falls right on his arse on the bed, but he doesn’t have time to do anything about that because then John is on top of him, kissing him, hot breath over his mouth and his erection pressing into the front of his pyjamas. Sherlock pulls him upward until they’re in a more comfortable position, his head pillowed by the cushions and John sprawled more comfortably over his burning body, nipping and biting at his neck.

“This is turning out to be a very, _very_ excellent Christmas,” he comments, and Sherlock finds himself giggling, hitching one leg around John’s waist, pressing up and against him. “Yeah, oh god, Sherlock-“

“Why are you wearing all these _clothes,_ ” Sherlock complains, and scrabbles at John’s shirt. “Off, take this off-“

“It’s kind of cold,you know-“

“Well then, you’re not getting anywhere if you don’t take off your shirt, John!”

John sees the accuracy of this statement and allows Sherlock to unbutton his shirt, kissing him all the while. “You’re mouth,” he whispers. “Fuck.”

“Don’t take off your jeans yet,” Sherlock tells him, slipping two fingers into his pocket. “I mean, we can’t forget this, can we?” he waves the condom packet in front of John’s face, smirking.

John flushes. Wonderful.

“That was-that was not.” He coughs. “I mean.”

“Don’t babble,” Sherlock says easily, and then reaches for his zipper. “It’s fine. I’ve been-I’ve been thinking about this.”

John’s eyebrows go so high they disappear into his hair. Sherlock feels him twitch against his crotch. “Really?”

“Really,” Sherlock promises. “Now take off your trousers.”

“You- are you sure about-“

Sherlock pitches his hips forward, brushes his crotch against John’s. “Quite sure.”

John growls, holds him hard by the hips and pushes against him. Sherlock yelps in surprise when he bites his jaw.

Sherlock’s voice becomes a ragged, whispery thing as John grazes his teeth down his throat. “You really thought I wouldn’t deduce this?”

He can feel the chuckle against his skin, right over his heart. “I thought I’d take my chances.”

“What a dull Christmas it would have been otherwise,” Sherlock says mournfully, and wraps both legs around his waist, thrusting upwards. John suddenly takes his wrists and pins them up, over his head, and kisses him. Deep, slow, dirty, absolutely delicious. When Sherlock squirms, John’s grip tightens, until Sherlock gets the message. _Stay still until I’m done with you._

 

He still cheats, though. He makes quiet, whimpering noises until John can’t bear it any longer and looks away. “You’re a bad, bad man,” he whispers, and kisses down his neck. He lets go of his wrists in favour of moving to the hem of his shirt, and he lifts it up, placing a wet kiss over one nipple  as he does. Sherlock sighs, bites his lip. “Do that again,” he says.

 

“Can I get you naked first?” John asks, boyishly, and Sherlock laughs, letting John pull the t shirt over his head and throw it on the ground, where it joins the rest of the discarded clothes. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and lowers his mouth to a nipple, just as Sherlock had asked. Sherlock’s hands move to John’s hair, and he throws his head back, mouth falling open as John laves the skin, bites softly, suddenly.

 

“God, John, I want you to fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

These are wanton words. Words he didn’t think anyone would say, even in the context of sex or porn. He was wrong. He wants to say much more, absolutely self-indulgent things.

 

John looks down at him, his smile soft and fond. No one has smiled at him like that, before. John runs a finger down his face, strokes his bottom lip, kisses the crest of his cheekbone.

 

“You know. I thought you were the prettiest thing when I saw you first. You were so fucking smart, and so insane. I should have done this way, way sooner. I didn’t know- I couldn’t tell.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock replies, fingers running through John’s hair. “You could have had me up against the lockers, ages ago.”

 

“Maybe later. Sounds like a plan. I’ll have you here, and then I’ll have you against the lockers, and then when everyone goes home, I’ll have you over your desk in class. How’s that sound?”

“Brilliant. Now get on with it and fuck me.”

John laughs, kisses him again (another day, Sherlock will ask John to kiss him for hours and hours…) fingers gently running down his stomach.

 

“You know we don’t have to, right?” he asks again, licking a slow stripe up his neck.

 

“If you ask me again, I will kick you on your _head_ ,” Sherlock promises, his voice hitching when John starts sucking at his nipple again. He can feel John’s laughter against his skin, a warm puff of indulgent breath.

 

John’s fingers find the waistband of his pyjamas, and he slips them down, down, until Sherlock shucks them off himself.

 

And this is clearly, very clearly, a precursor to sex, because he’s _naked,_ and he’s suddenly absolutely terrified. Not of sex, or even of the pain that might go with it, but the fact that there’s no turning back from this. It will mean John has been inside of him, and Sherlock will be ruined for everyone else.

 

“Good,” he hears John whisper against his ear, and Sherlock shivers.

 

“I didn’t realise I was saying that outloud.”

 

“I want you to be ruined for everyone else,” John says softly, and he’s gently rolling his hips all the while, the rough material of his jeans sliding up and down Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock tips his head up, up, mouth falling open. “I want people to look at you and know someone’s had you. Just enough. Just enough to know you’re taken. Is that- is that bad?”

 

“God, no,” Sherlock gasps. “Take off your jeans.”

That happens as well, and when their cocks slot against each Sherlock lets out a very undignified yelp that makes John giggle and kiss him again.

“Good?” John asks, and Sherlock can’t do anything else except nod helplessly.

Insistent hands at his waist: John wants him to turn over, so he does. Face buried in the cushions, fingers curled in the bed sheets. The windows are closed but Sherlock still feels goosebumps on his skin. John kisses him on his shoulder, hands sliding down his sides, warm, oddly anchoring. Sherlock is in danger of passing out from the sensation, despite the fact that John has barely touched him yet.

He can hear the rip of plastic; lubricant, probably. He can’t tell. His eyes are shut. John’s mouth is against the back of his neck when his fingers push against his hole. He squirms, but John holds him steady. He can hear him saying, “Tell me if it hurts, alright?” and it’s impossible that it should, because Sherlock is sure John is incapable of hurting him.

 

It’s certainly odd, though, the feeling. Sherlock has certainly experimented with his own fingers before; but it’s quite different from someone else touching you. The lubricant is cold and sticky but he quickly warms up because John is doing much more than just opening up.

 

“God, more-” is that him? Doesn’t sound like him. Sherlock shuffles deeper inside the pillow, and  John adds one more finger. He’s slow, and steady, and he takes his time, and Sherlock _loves_ him for it. He’s dimly aware of the fact that three fingers are pushing in and out of him now, like slow fucking, and John is panting in his ear, his erection pressed up against the back of his thigh.

 

“Can I- god, Can I, please-” he says breathlessly.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

 

John makes him turn around again, so he’s on his back and looking up at him. John’s hair falls over his forehead, his blue eyes burn when they look at Sherlock. Sherlock can feel his cheeks heating up, and he reaches up, hooks his arms around John’s neck, without a word, and kisses him.

 

John’s grip at his hips is gentle, and when he lifts Sherlock’s legs to wrap around his waist, it fits perfectly. Like it’s _right._

 

He pushes in slowly, so slowly that Sherlock is about to snap at him to hurry up.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says when he feels it, and he shudders, body going taut and the the hands at John’s neck tightening. “That’s…” different, he thinks, but doesn’t say it.

 

He screws his eyes shut when John slides in deeper, mouth falling open and letting out a harsh exhale of breath that sounds like he’s in pain, except he isn’t, not exactly.

 

“Too much?” John asks, and his voice is trembling, like he’s trying to restrain himself from something. The thought that it’s the fact that he wants to fuck Sherlock into the mattress but _can’t_ makes his own cock harden and push more insistently against John’s.

 

“Just- give me a second. It feels...big.”

 

John laughs in reply, ducking his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s holding himself up with his arms, so as not put his entire weight on Sherlock. Sherlock bites his lip, tries to reconcile himself with the feeling of having a cock inside of him, and then he pushes down. John gasps, suddenly thrusts forward, and Sherlock groans, hands reaching for John’s hair and pulling.

 

“That’s- one way of going about it,” Sherlock says tightly.

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry-, I just-” John starts to pull out, which is even _worse,_ so Sherlock just pulls him closer and slants his mouth against John’s. He can feel him breathing harshly, and he kisses him more insistently. He hooks his leg higher up his waist, bears down. There’s a moment of discomfort until John breathes out shakily.

“You’re--you’re tight,” he says around a rough exhale, kisses Sherlock on the crest of his brow. It’s an oddly intimate gesture, it makes something expand in Sherlock’s chest. His body is still stiff, fingers curled painfully in John’s hair. But it feels- good, now. It burns, but Sherlock finds he wants more of it, he wants John to _move,_ wants to know what it feels like.

 

“John, please-”

 

John pulls out and pushes back in slowly, and Sherlock gasps, and he does it again, the same thing.

 

“God-” Sherlock looks up at John above him, his cheeks flushed, hair messy between the gaps of his fingers. His eyes are unreadable. Sherlock can’t deduce _anything_ right now, his brain feels like mush. Eyes still locked with him, John rolls his hips and thrusts again, and Sherlock moans, his head falling back against the pillows.

 

“Yes, that- do that-” he warbles, and John takes that as encouragement. There’s less time between his thrusts now, and suddenly John does something that makes his eyes snap open, wide, and his hips stutter, pushing up against John, seeking friction. John reads his expression, does it again, and Sherlock cries out. “W-what are you _doing,_ ” he demands. “Do it. Keep doing it, _god._ ”

 

“I want to- can I-”

 

“Do whatever you _want_ ,” Sherlock says breathlessly, his hips shifting restlessly. “Just don’t stop.”

 

John groans, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s, hot breath over his face each time he pushes in. It’s just on the verge of painful now because John doesn’t seem to be restraining himself anymore, and Sherlock doesn’t want to, he wants John to be absolutely _mad_ about him, wants him to forget silly things like self control when he’s fucking him. This is good, and he wants more of it and _oh god-_ each time John’s cock slides inside of him he pushes Sherlock back against the covers. Back and forth, back and forth-

 

Sherlock is barely aware of the noises he’s making. Soft moans and bit off vowels, the edges stolen by John’s mouth. John stretches out an arm to grab the headboard, fucks him harder.

 

Sherlock literally screams then, and John’s hand comes to clutch him around his mouth. “You’re supposed to be quiet,” he admonishes. Sherlock rips his hand from his mouth and twines their fingers together instead. John takes the hint and does that too, pinning his arms over his head so that Sherlock can barely move, just lift his hips up and take it.

 

They’re kissing, but not quite, because neither of them seem to be good at multitasking so they’re just breathing in each other’s air instead. The tips of John’s hair are damp with sweat. Every one or two thrusts he hits his prostate and Sherlock sobs, because it feels so _good,_ and he doesn’t want it to stop, but he can feel himself getting closer.

 

“Shhh,” John says, lips sliding down his chin, to his neck, sinking his teeth in.

 

“John I’m going to come,” Sherlock finds himself saying helplessly, right before he does, covering John’s stomach with ejaculate.

 

His back arches and he has to throw his head back against the pillow. John finds a convenient bit of skin to suck on, continuing to push in and out of Sherlock, his thrusts growing more haphazard.

 

“Fuck,” he says, biting down on his neck, the grip on his wrists tightening, almost painful. Sherlock can feel the bones grinding against each other.

 

“Gorgeous,” he whispers, before falling on top of him in a heap, his cock twitching once or twice in the aftermath.

 

Neither of them seem to be ready to move quite yet, so they’re quiet, their breath still leaving their bodies in quick exhales. Sherlock finds the energy a minute later to run his fingers softly down John’s back, which is now damp with sweat. His weight on top of him should feel uncomfortable, suffocating, but instead he feels like John is anchoring him down, as though he’d float away without him.

 

Sherlock has never felt this way about anyone, in his entire life. As though he’d want nothing more than to burrow into John and never leave, stay there forever.

 

After John raises himself on his palms and slides slowly out of him. Sherlock winces from the slight discomfort and John kisses him at the corner of his mouth in apology, even though it's not really his fault. Rolls off of him, landing with a little thump on the space next to him. Sherlock immediately finds himself covering the _unbearable_ distance between the two of them by turning to John and curling his body to fit against his side, curls flattened against the press of his chin, his nose against his collarbone. Fingers wrap around his waist, curve around the hip and stay there. He can feel his own semen drying, tacky and uncomfortable against his stomach, but to disentangle himself from John, move _away,_ put more distance between the two of them when all Sherlock wants is this proximity, is...unfathomable.

While he's thinking of how awful it would be to get up, he feels a hand press against the back of his head, fingers threading through the curls at the base of his neck. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed. "Hmmm," he murmurs, wiggling a bit, curving against John until they fit together perfectly.

***

Sherlock doesn't remember much after that, since he must have fallen asleep. But when he wakes up, the other side of the bed is cold and empty and when he looks wildly around his room, there's no sign of John. Suddenly feeling sick, as though he hasn't eaten for days and he's about to faint, Sherlock gets out of his bed. His legs feel shaky. His bum is still a bit sore, as are his hips and his legs.

Of _course._ He'd made a ridiculous mistake by engaging in this kind of thing at all. He'd put John off with his clingy-ness and his pining and his _feelings_ and John had probably re-thought the entire thing and decided Sherlock wasn't worth the effort.

It still feels awful, though, because Sherlock had thought it would last a bit longer than that. He'd...unwittingly, of course, and foolishly, _trusted_ John and now John had...

Broken his heart?

Going by the hollow feeling in his chest, it felt more like he'd taken his heart and ran away with it instead, never stopping to think how-

Nevermind. It didn't matter. Sherlock clears his throat, fixes his wayward curls and picks his clothes from the floor, throwing on last night's pyjamas and dressing gown. When he wanders into his bathroom to brush his teeth, he can see a faint purple bruise high up on his neck. When Mycroft sees it he'll be tedious about it. Sherlock sighs, digging his fingers in. It hurts.

Suddenly he hears his bedroom door click open and he rushes into his bedroom, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth, minty foam dripping down his chin.

It’s...John. Carrying two coffees and dressed in his rumpled jumper and jeans, his hair sticking up at the back and his usually tightly wound scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

"Happy Christmas," he greets Sherlock smoothly, walking up to him and kissing him on the cheek. He gets some foam on his lips. "Sorry, I had to go home and wish my mum. She said you should come home for lunch, by the way. And I met your brother downstairs. Your mum doesn't seem to mind, but I think he wants me to leave." And he grins at him, as though Sherlock's head isn't spinning so quickly it feels like it will fall off his head.

"I." Sherlock blinks. He slips the toothbrush out of his mouth and wipes it with the back of his hand. "I-" he tries again and is unable to say anything.

John narrows his eyes for a second or two, as though debating Sherlock's sanity, and then he makes a small 'oh' of realisation, nodding minutely. The next second, he's wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pulling him close, right next to his body, and reaching up on the balls of his feet to kiss him properly. His lips are cold from the wind outside, just a little chapped. A day's stubble rakes against Sherlock's more sensitive skin. He's only about to let his lips fall open when John pulls away, one hand at the back of his neck, keeping his head bowed, the other at his waist.

"Oh, you thought I'd done a runner, hadn't you?" he asks, eyes sparkling.

Sherlock pouts. "Yes."

"Idiot," John breathes, and kisses him again, and this time he's pushing him back, back until he hits a wall and John can angle him there, and then slides his own frame over his, the rough wool of his jumper pressed against bare skin. This kiss is deeper, slower, makes Sherlock feel warm right down to the tips of his toes.

"I would never run," John promises raggedly against his mouth. "I'm in love with you."

Sherlock grows still for a moment, but only a moment, before he's curling his fingers into John's jumper and kissing him like he's drowning, like he can't get enough, because he _can't._ He can feel the back of his neck and his throat and his chest and everything else _burning_ like he's being set on fire, even on this cold, cold day.

"Me too," he replies, breathlessly. "that is- I'm in love with _you._ Not myself. In case- in case that was unclear."

 

John slides a hand up his neck and into his hair and runs his hand through it.

 

"Perfectly clear," he assures him. "Can we go to the library? I feel like we should snog in the library."

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "We _have_ snogged there. Numerous times."

 

John, still wrapped around him, shrugs. "Not on _Christmas._ "

 

Sherlock pretends to think about this, even though he's obviously already decided it is a perfect idea. "Point conceded," he nods, and John grins, his favourite grin, crooked and flirtatious and just a little bit dangerous, because of what it means: more of _this,_ of whatever it is.

 

Suddenly Mycroft's voice wafts in from downstairs, through the open door. "Considering John's already deflowered my brother and sneaked into our home, I'd say having breakfast with us is long overdue, don't you?"

 

There are a few seconds of silence while John and Sherlock stare at each other in alarm, before Sherlock's mother can be heard to make a noise of annoyance. "Oh shush, darling, it's _Christmas."_

 


End file.
